


Thirium and Blood

by KH310-S (Author_of_Kheios)



Series: Android Blood [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900 are Siblings, Deviant Upgraded Connor | RK900, M/M, POV First Person, RK900 POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 10:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15816849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Author_of_Kheios/pseuds/KH310-S
Summary: “Fan... fucking... tastic....” He glares at me, but with no more malice than usual; he knows this isn’t my fault. “Gonna help me out already, tin can? I’m dying here, or don’t you know what dying looks like?”(Inspired by multiple posts on Pinterest)





	Thirium and Blood

Bullets ping off every metal surface around me, gouging into softer materials as my programing kicks in and I shift just enough with every cracking gunshot that none of the wildly shot bullets hit me. My clothing is torn in some places where my calculations for shifting don’t quite allow for the physics of cloth, but I hardly care; I can replace them later, and the point of the program is to use minimal movement without incurring damage.  
Fortunately, the clip is small and I have approximately 6 seconds while the gun is reloaded to make my move. Gears catch and my body launches forward from a standstill to top speed in two steps.  
“Shit! Shit shit shit...! Stay the fuck away from me!!” Voice is strained from high stress. Even from here I can make out the dilation of pupils in fear.  
A fumble of the new mag grants me 5.5 more seconds. It clicks into place and the barrel drops down, aiming for me again, but I’m already where I need to be.  
The first bullet sings past my ear, just nicking skin. The second blows a hole through my hand as it closes around the hot barrel. I turn off sensory evaluation and focus on more pressing matters.  
“Fuck you, piece of shit android!”  
Quivering eyes and frothing mouth indicate drug usage. Explains why he shot at Reed without warning. Bruising around neck suggest abusive household. Must have panicked when he heard Reed shouting at me outside. Puncture wound along the insides of both elbows. Repeat user. Torn ticket stub sticking out of his pocket for an event two nights ago at Eden Club. Age eval shows nineteen, so he must have a fake ID. Bandage loosened from shoulder reveals fresh inking. No known gangs with that symbol; personal meaning? Latest bio trigger on the gun handle. Either he bought the gun for himself, or hacked the component to be able to use it.  
Only 2 seconds to complete my analysis. For that much, I’ve improved. Good. Mental note to report progress.  
With the gun no longer viable, he punches. I catch it, wrench the gun away, and slam my forehead against his. He goes down silently. Tossing the gun down, I go to check on Reed.  
He’s crawled from the post where he was shot back to the car, leaving a trail of blood behind him. The amount of blood is concerning, but not fatal, or even necessarily dangerous, so long as I get him medical attention soon.  
I stand over him for a moment, analysing.  
Two shots to the right shoulder. Will have limited range of movement for the duration of the healing period. One shot glanced the left of his chest. No danger; perhaps even a “cool scar.” One shot to the left hip. That one might cause problems in the future.  
Less than .75 seconds to analyse.  
“Detective Reed.”  
“Fan... fucking... tastic....” He glares at me, but with no more malice than usual; he knows this isn’t my fault. “Gonna help me out already, tin can? I’m dying here, or don’t you know what dying looks like?”  
“You aren’t going to die, Detective,” I correct automatically, and then realise from the dark look he gives me that he already knew that. Mental note to upgrade personality chip to better account for sarcasm. Also scan for the nearest hospital while I kneel and tear ragged pieces of my jacket for makeshift bandages. “Hold on a moment, Detective, and I’ll get you to a hospital.”  
“Ow ow ow!” He shifts away from me, swatting my hands away. “Ease up, Nines! Fucking hurts enough already without you squeezing me to death with that damn android strength of yours.” I set my strength restriction higher and he relaxes after a moment, heaving a short, pained sigh. “...Too bad about your jacket. And doesn’t your hand hurt?”  
“My jacket can be replaced. I will return to CyberLife tonight for diagnostics and repair of all the damage I have incurred these past few weeks, and will return with necessary items, including a new jacket. As for my hand, I have shut down all sensory functions for feeling temporarily; I cannot feel anything at the moment.”  
“So if I kicked you between the legs...”  
“You would undoubtedly do damage to yourself and I would feel nothing but pressure according to the laws of physics.”  
“Can you feel this?” He reaches up and pokes my cheek. I have already provided an adequate answer for that, so I say nothing. The corner of his lip twitches up, and I know immediately that he’s “pulling my leg.” Withdrawing slightly, I see but don’t feel him brush nothing more than a fingertip over my cheek. “What about this?”  
“I am aware that you are touching me because I see it... but no, I do not feel it.”  
He stares at me for a long moment, fingertips still resting on my jaw. I have finished bandaging what I can and have staunched much of the bleeding, so I sit still and allow him to complete his humanly slow thought process. After a moment, he seems ready to say something, but stops himself and drops his hand.  
“I thought you were getting me to a hospital,” he points out, a bit childishly, I think. I don’t respond, picking him up with ease and transferring him gently into the backseat of the car so he can lay down; if I say anything, he’ll take it as a challenge and start an argument, as he always does.  
“Wait!” he blurts suddenly as I’m turning over the ignition. “What about...?”  
“I have already alerted DPD to send a patrol to pick him up. They should be here momentarily.” He remains tense for several seconds longer, until a patrol car rushes past us toward the scene.  
“What a fucking day...” he sighs heavily, falling back on the seat. “Hey, tin can.”  
“Yes, Detective?”  
“In a bit, I’m gonna be hopped up on God knows what kinda drugs... Don’t listen to anything I say till the meds wear off.”  
“Of course, Detective,” I agree. Mental note to record all conversations with Reed for the next few weeks. If nothing else, Connor will enjoy seeing him make a fool of himself. I add a new folder, “Reed on Meds,” to my memory banks in preparation, filing it under “Blackmail.”  
A reminder blips in my mind that I still have yet to capture footage of the detective volunteering to bathe and play with the cats at the local animal shelter, and a possible link offers itself. Medicated Reed playing with felines? I accept, allowing myself a slow smile.  
It takes 8 minutes and 47 seconds to arrive at the nearest hospital and park. Despite Reed’s protests, I carry him inside and set him on a chair in the waiting room just as a nurse hurries over, a slender MT-580 nurse-unit following just at his heels. I step back to give them room, setting my listening programs to auto-record and retreating to my garden.  
I could find Amanda, but after Connor deviated, her program in all RK models was corrupted, making it impossible to hold a cohesive conversation.  
In layman’s terms, she lost her sanity.  
Instead, I walk idly along the path that rings the outside edges of the garden. Triggered by my presence, the simulations begin; birds twitter out of sight, fat bumblebees float from flower to flower, leaves rustle either softly with supposed breezes or more loudly with the scampering of a squirrel or chipmunk.  
“Nines.” Connor snaps into view a few feet ahead of me. “We just heard. Is Detective Reed alright?”  
“He will live,” I nod. “He took four GSWs to the torso; two to the shoulder, one to the chest, and one to the hip.”  
“Was he wearing his vest?”  
“No. The day I convince him to wear his vest is the day androids are legally allowed equal rights.”  
“You’re learning,” he smiles, amused.  
“We are in each other’s minds, Connor,” I point out, returning his smile. “You rub off on me. Occasionally.”  
“Does Detective Reed know? That you’ve deviated?”  
“I’m not sure,” I admit, smile replaced with a frown. “He is... I often find him staring at me, and I can’t decipher his expression. I have never seen it before.”  
“Perhaps he does know?”  
“If he does, why has he not said anything?” I shake my head. “He’s too blunt to hold back about my deviancy.”  
“I see.”  
Neither of us speaks for a long moment, and I watch him watch a butterfly flitting past.  
“Do you still think you may have feelings for him?” Connor’s gaze meets mine, and I know he will see it if I lie.  
“No. I no longer think I have feelings for Gavin Reed.” I see the flicker of disappointment in his expression, and it strikes me just how human he has become in his deviancy.  
If I allowed myself to express my deviancy more, would I become more human?  
“I _know_ I have feelings for Gavin Reed,” I continue. Connor brightens, a thrilled look sweeping over his features, and the sight of his joy eases an ache inside me that I didn’t know I had, that I don’t understand.  
“Are you going to tell him?” Connor asks, elated. I can’t comprehend that either and I cock my head at him.  
“Why do you care?”  
“Why shouldn’t I? You’re my newer model, my little brother. I want to see you happy, Nines, and I know nothing will make you happier than Detective Reed.”  
He’s called me that before; his little brother. No regards that I am larger, faster, stronger, better in every way than he.  
No, I realise; I’m wrong. There is one way in which he surpasses me.  
He has done things I can never comprehend. His knowledge and experience far outweighs my own, and his understanding of all things exceeds mine exponentially.  
My model may excel physically, but the true mind of the RK-800 model, the mind of Connor Anderson, will always be greater.  
Before I can process a response to his remark, I register an alert from the subsystems monitoring the recordings I’m making of conversation around me; keywords have triggered the alert to let me know I will be addressed momentarily.  
“I must go. I will send you a message when I have returned Detective Reed safely home.”  
“Good luck, Nines.” He blinks out an instant before I do, and I recalibrate to my environment even as the nurse addresses me for a full report of what happened. I give it, glancing occasionally at Reed, who is stubbornly insisting on walking himself to a room, where he can strip as needed to have his injuries tended.  
When the nurse no longer needs me, I slip into the room and quietly go to the corner, out of the way, where I set myself to stand-by.  
Eight hours. Automatic power on. A moment of recalibration, and a glance around...  
Reed is lying down, an arm thrown over his eyes. The moment I take a step, he jolts upright, gun raised and a fierce expression on his face that fades into recognition, a slight blurring in his gaze that tells me whatever meds he was given have not worn off quite yet.  
“Damn, Nines... Almost shot you.”  
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” I point out calmly. “Have you been discharged?” He hesitates before he answers, nodding.  
“Yeah, not long ago. Figured you’d chase me down again if I left without you, so...” He waves absently at the hospital bed.  
“I will take you home, then.”  
“Wait, what about... er, don’t you need to get your hand fixed or whatever? And your ear too.” I reach up with my undamaged hand, but even without sensation recognition, I can’t feel any sort of damage on my ear.  
“Stupid tin can...” Reed comes over and reaches up on the other side, tugging lightly at my opposite ear. “This one. Practically cut in half... Ugh... and you’re bleeding again.” He draws his hand back with an expression of disgust at the splatter of thirium across his fingers.  
My damaged hand has no dexterity, so I use my undamaged hand to disconnect the entire module from the side of my head, which automatically cuts the flow of thirium. With a cursory glance at the mildly damaged module, I tuck it into my pocket and look at Reed, who is staring at me in shock.  
“Are you ready to go?” Without the microphones of one ear, my voice is muted and rings in my head, and I turn slightly to that side to hear his response.  
“I... Why? You didn’t have to-”  
“The less thirium I lose, the better I will function. Are you ready to go?”  
“Y-yeah; yeah, I’m ready to go.” He doesn’t seem to know how to respond to my partial disassembly, and I stash the recording of his expression in with the files to send to Connor later.  
He doesn’t say anything during the trip back to his home. I support him as he hobbles to the door, because he refused to let me pick him up again.  
“Will you be able to return to work after recovery?” I ask when he leans against the door frame for a moment to take the weight off his injured hip.  
“Yeah, doc said it’d be a couple months, but so long as I get plenty of bedrest, eat properly, and stay off my feet as much as possible, I’ll be fine,” he echoes sarcastically.  
“I see.”  
“Hmph. You’re not getting rid of me that easy, tin can.” He moves to enter the house, and I start to follow, only to have him slap a hand to my chest, blocking me. “Nah-ah-ah; you’re not coming in. I’m not an invalid and I don’t need your help. Go get repaired already; that missing ear is a fucking eyesore. And don’t forget to tell Fowler what happened. Let him know I’ll be back in a couple weeks.”  
“Months,” I correct. “The doctor said you need a couple of months.”  
“Screw that; I’ll be fine.” I don’t bother trying to argue anymore; he’s too stubborn. Even if I wanted to, I don’t get the chance; he slips inside and closes the door quickly behind him. A lock clicks.  
I could break down the door. Or find another entrance. But there’s no point; he’s not going anywhere tonight, and once I’ve been repaired, I will be able to monitor him myself and ensure he follows the doctor’s orders. So instead, I turn around and leave, sending a notice ahead to CyberLife that I will be returning for a twelve-hour diagnostics check and repair routine.


End file.
